Just Rigby. (troubador) wrote in light_of_may, @ 2009-11-15 20:50:00 |
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Entry tags: | #flashback, #solo |
All the lonely people, where do they all belong?
Who: Rigby (solo)
When: FLASHBACK to May 1, 2009 - the Light of May
Where: A bar in San Antonio, Texas
What: A day when it really sucks to be a telepath.
The dim lights in the bar kept faces dark and the crowd anonymous, just how Rigby liked it. Some people played on stage for the rush, the appreciation of the crowd. Rigby was mostly unaware of them as his fingers plucked at the strings, lost in the melody. His mind was blank while he did so, the only peace he could find in the company of other people.
There was a decent crowd in the bar tonight, though Rigby had no plans to stay and talk to anyone. Since leaving Fina in LA, a few months back, he hadn’t been close to anyone, actually. Maybe he’d grab a beer for the road and leave it at that.
No one else in the bar knew it, but she was the reason why he was playing Damien Rice’s The Blower’s Daughter tonight. The lyric “I can’t take my eyes off of you” suited her perfectly. If Rigby thought he’d be able to make their relationship work, he would have tried to stay.
The truth of the matter was that he was a nomad, traveling from city to city, state to state, nothing to tie him to one place or another. Both of them knew that when they started this.
It didn’t change the fact that he missed her. Maybe, after San Antonio started to bore him, he’d head west again, to stop in and see her. Even if she’d found someone new – and Rigby would know if she had, thoughts gave everyone away – he just wanted to see that smile again.
As the song ended, Rigby bowed his head, thoughts trickling back into his consciousness. Normally he made a beeline for the exit, not wanting to be bombarded by the audience’s thoughts. Tonight, though, he paused.
The first thought that came through clearly was, What the hell is this?, from the bartender.
Followed by: Sweet Jesus Christ in heaven, we’re all going to die.
And another: It’s on CNN, of course it must be true.
Rubbing at his eyes, Rigby left the stage, packing up his guitar. Most of the time, he’d be far enough away from the other people at the bar to drop their thoughts to whispers. Today, it was like everyone was shouting. And they were all thinking about something called the Light of May.
Shit. Now he had to know what was going on, in spite of the headache he could feel growing behind his eyes. Five minutes. That was all he needed and then Rigby would be out of here.
He sat at the empty of the bar, waving away the bartender’s offer of a drink. Rigby rubbed at his temples, glancing up at the TV screen perched above the liquor bottles lining the wall.
World leaders had announced the existence of the supernatural. Vampires, werewolves, sirens – all real. No wonder everyone was losing their minds.
And every single patron in the bar was thinking about it.
No wonder why the neighbor’s never around during the day! He’s got to be a vampire!
Is that why there’s so many dogs in the neighbor’s yard? Can people shift into a dog?
What is this world coming to?
Abominations! God will strike you down where you stand…
Every thought flickered through Rigby’s brain, one right after another, no control over what he heard, no stopping the flow. To go from the silence music gave him to the onslaught of reactions was torture. Pain exploded behind his eyes, nausea curling in his stomach, and Rigby’s head fell forward, leaning against the bar.
“Hey, buddy.” The bartender shook his shoulder, and it took Rigby a minute to realize he was actually talking, not just a voice in his head. “You feeling okay?”
Rigby blinked, the lights over the bar blinding now that he was looking in that direction. It had been years since this had last happened to him; he forgot how quickly the migraine could come. “Huh? Uh, yeah, I’m fine.” You assholes are makin’ my head explode, don’t you be worryin’ about it.
“Crazy shit,” the bartender said, jerking a thumb towards the television screen, currently going over a list of celebrities who just revealed their supernatural origins.
“Yeah, crazy.” Rigby had always been one of the crazies, walking among the “normal” people. The migraine he had now was evidence enough, only getting worse the longer he stayed in the bar. This was the exact reason why Rigby avoided crowds – one person and their thoughts he could deal with. A bar full? Forget it.
All he could do now was get out. The truck wasn’t parked far and he thought – he hoped – he could drive. Rigby didn’t care where he ended up, as long as it was away from everyone. San Antonio, it seemed, wore out its welcome faster than he’d anticipated.
Walking made him even more nauseous as he stumbled out to the Ford Ranger, blue paint peeling along the sides, front bumper mangled in some accident Rigby had long since forgotten. The truck and his guitars were his only possessions he cared about. Rigby managed to get his guitar onto the front seat before his stomach turned against him and he crouched beside the truck to spit out a mouthful of vomit. All that came up were beer and pretzels.
Even outside, the voices didn’t stop. Everyone in the bar, driving along the street, walking around – was thinking about it, the Light of May. Rigby hadn’t had a migraine this bad in years and it would only continue to worsen until he found a way to silence everyone else’s thoughts.
Music would work, but it was temporary. Drawing a few deep breaths, Rigby steadied himself before climbing into the truck. He’d drive until he couldn’t hear anyone anymore. Somewhere there was an open field or a forest with no one in it and he intended to find it. How long he’d have to stay there, Rigby didn’t know. Maybe after a few days, the shock would die down and he could return to something of a normal life – as normal as he got, anyway.
He started the engine, shut off the radio, and prayed he could stay coherent until he was out of the city.